Shards
by nymphxdora
Summary: She is to be married to another, against her wishes. He isn't sure that he can deal with it. Both of them turn to firewhiskey.
1. wedding day

**Shards**

_Disclaimer: Anything recognisable belongs to J.K. Rowling_

**_Winner of the Randomly Generated Prompt Competition on HPFC, Nominee for the 2014 Hallows Awards in Diagon Alley II (Best Pre-Golden Trio Era)_**

* * *

She stands in front of the mirror.

Staring back at her is a woman she barely recognises. The tall, lithe figure, the ebony curls —those are all the same as she remembers. But the regret in her eyes changes her face in way she cannot explain.

Today is her wedding day. If anything, she should be happy. She's been dreaming about this since she was a little girl—played the event out in her mind's eye more times than she can count. And it promises to be a magical ceremony like the ones in her dreams, it truly does. Helga has made sure of that—the students have made sure of that. It will be a grand event.

But she doesn't want it. She doesn't want the man she is about to marry.

She had seen it coming—he was the only one who, in her mother's eyes, was truly eligible. He came from a good family, a _respected _family. His bravery and prowess on the battlefield and here, within Hogwarts, was nothing to be snorted at. And it could be worse—at least, if anything, she is marrying a close friend.

But she doesn't love him. Not in that way. Not in the way she loves another.

She closes her eyes briefly and when she reopens them, her gaze focuses on a discarded bottle of firewhiskey lying in the corner of the room. On an impulse, she marches over, grabs it and takes a gulp. It's the only way she'll be able to make it through the day.

She picks up a pair of earrings from her dresser and examines them. Pearls—beautiful, expensive pearls that would match her flowing white dress well. She almost puts them on, before remembering where she got them, who they were a gift from. She almost wears them anyway, but can't fasten them without her stomach filling with guilt. It would be a slap in the face to wear them. For both of them.

For Godric, it would be a reminder that her heart truly rested with another. And for Salazar, it would be a reminder that no matter what he did, no matter how many expensive gifts he bought her, it would never be enough. There was no way that he would be able to prove to Rowena's mother that he was worthy of her daughter, that despite the supremacist attitudes of his family that she so looked down upon, he was noble enough to marry Rowena. For her mother, he would never be noble enough. That is why today, she is marrying Godric, and not Salazar.

She puts the earrings on the dresser and picks up another pair that Helga gave her. They aren't as pretty, but they are much safer. At least she won't be hurting anyone more than she already is.

The door opens and closes behind her with a soft click. _Helga_. "I'm not ready yet," she says, laughing, trying to feign some kind of happiness to put Helga's mind at ease. She turns around, still fixing the back of the earring, and almost drops it when she sees who it is.

It isn't Helga.

"Salazar," she says his name with surprise, with fear, with pain. The façade of cheerfulness drops away—she doesn't need to pretend with him.

He doesn't smile. "Rowena." His gaze is mesmerising and as he meets her eyes, she feels her breath hitch slightly in her throat.

"You shouldn't be here," she says, heart racing. "I'm to be married soon," she averts her eyes, not sure if she can bear to see the agony that this will cause him.

"I know," he says, and she realizes that she doesn't need to look at him to feel his pain. It's audible- it's wrapped around his voice, tainting his every word. "But you aren't married yet."

"Someone might come in," she whispers.

He pulls his wand from his jacket and points it towards the door, sealing it through a non-verbal spell. "No they won't."

She's barely had time to inhale before his lips are on hers, his arms are around her waist and he's kissing her like he never has before. She takes a moment to register what's happening and then her arms wrap around his neck and her hands run through his hair as she pulls him closer, desperate. The kiss deepens and she finds herself staggering backwards as he pushes her against the dresser, the wood leaving indents on the small of her back.

His lips leave her mouth and she lets out a tiny moan as he trails kisses down her neck and in the hollow of her throat. She pulls his lips back up to hers and they crash together in a sea of longing, passion and desire. She knows that this will be the last time and she doesn't want it to end.

But it does. They break apart when they hear the knock on the door, when Helga says, tentatively, "Rowena? Can I come in?"

"Just a minute," Rowena calls back. She turns to Salazar and whispers, "I'm sorry."

"Don't be," he says.

Before she can reply, he's gone; morphed into a snake and slithered out of the open window.

She takes another gulp of the firewhiskey. And then another.

She finishes the bottle.

* * *

The ceremony is lush, sparkling and beautiful. Helga holds her train as her father leads her through the Great Hall, through the pews of students and friends. Godric is waiting by the altar—looking smart and regal. Salazar stands behind him, the best man.

As Rowena takes her place at the altar, she sees her mother sitting at the front of the hall. She gives Rowena an approving nod, and Rowena feels her confidence falter.

It passes by in a blur of words. She is faintly aware of the proceedings around her; she smiles and nods when she has to, when she is required to, but her heart isn't truly in it. She manages to say 'I do', to slide the ring onto Godric's finger, but she isn't looking at him—rather, at the man behind him.

When Godric kisses her, it's stiff. It's awkward, yet applause still erupts. Rowena wonders whether the audience is merely pretending not to notice.

* * *

It's Helga who finds him.

Night has fallen; the moon casts its rays across the grounds, coating everything in a silvery layer of black, white and grey. He is alone, in his quarters, drowning his sorrows in gulp after gulp of firewhiskey.

He started off pouring the rich, golden-red liquid into a glass. He doesn't remember when he stopped, when he started drinking directly from the bottle. It's easier—no pauses means that no pain has time to creep in. Three bottles lie discarded on the floor—one was thrown against the wooden panels with such force that it's shattered, sending fragments of glass across the room. With the amount he's consumed, it's no wonder that he's burning, but at least he's numb.

He's reaching for a fourth bottle when Helga plucks it from his hands. He's so drunk that he didn't even notice her come in, and he doesn't have the energy to protest as she gathers up his remaining stash of firewhiskey and takes it away. She comes back in, feels his forehead and tuts.

She presses a cold towel to his forehead and makes him lie down, saying something about a raging fever and how she understands that he's celebrating the marriage, but he really shouldn't drink so much. That almost makes him laugh_—celebrating. _How naïve Helga is.

Celebrating.

The pain is coming back now, sneaking its tendrils around his heart. He reaches, unconsciously, for a bottle, to take another sip to numb himself again, but Helga shakes her head and slaps his hand away.

"Go to sleep, Salazar," she says before she leaves. "It'll be better in the morning, I promise."

He doesn't think it'll get better. Not ever.

* * *

**A/N: **This was written for the 'Randomly Generated Prompt Competition' on the Harry Potter Fanfiction Challenges forum. The prompt was firewhiskey.

Anyway, this is the first time I've ever written anything in the Founder's Era, so it was fun to try something new! I hope you enjoyed it, and please leave a review if you did!


	2. one year earlier

He hasn't always been in love with her.

_One year earlier_

He hates her. He really does.

The four founders sit in the Headmaster's Office, each occupying a single side of the square table. She sits opposite him, lips pursed, blue eyes unblinking. He hates those eyes, he thinks. They're always challenging him, questioning him, boring into him like sharp needles that prick his skin.

She makes his blood boil—and not in a good way either.

Her voice lilts on as she describes the achievements of her students—those supposedly intelligent children she believes are so deserving of the education that they offer here. He can't help but scoff to himself, for what good are brains without some degree of cunning? Some of her students are thicker than books when it comes to actual ability to apply knowledge within practical situations.

"Do you have something to say, Lord Slytherin?" her voice sounds out across the stone room. Helga and Godric turn their heads towards him and he realizes that his scoff had not been as quiet as he had believed.

"Not at all, Lady Ravenclaw," he says, flashing her the most charming smile he can muster. "Please do continue."

She raises an eyebrow at him, a gesture that seems to convey a message, only one that he cannot read and—if he is being completely honest—does not wish to read. She continues on and he loses himself in his thoughts again.

He hates her, he knows he does.

And yet hate cannot explain the strange feeling of jealousy and possessiveness that he gets when, after the meeting is over and they are leaving their rooms, Godric runs a hand down her arm, gently, softly—almost longingly.

He wants to slap that hand away and cut it off and yet he can't quite explain why.

* * *

That very night, after checking that the students are in bed—and they are, although he cannot promise that they will remain that way as the hours of the night tick by—he stalks up to the library to catch up on his reading. A new shipment of scrolls has arrived and he wants to be the first to inspect it, to receive the information within it. He remembers the many days he spent as a boy curled up in his mothers' library, pouring over the texts within it while the other boys went out to fight.

He remembers the destruction of that library years later when a new order had been established in the Wizarding world, when his family had been shamed for their views on pureblood supremacy.

He didn't see what he had done wrong, what had truly warranted the destruction of all that knowledge. It was plain that wizards were above those filthy muggles, for they had talents that non-magical folk could only dream of. He didn't understand what was wrong about voicing such opinions.

His line of thought is interrupted by what sounds suspiciously like a sob. It's delicate and quiet, and it seems to be coming from the library. He curses silently, for he does not want to spend a night comforting some misguided young girl—probably one from Helga's house, at that. But the pull of the scrolls is too strong and he finds himself on track to the library, regardless.

It's only when he reaches the entrance that he freezes.

Another choked sob comes from within, only this time, he can see from whom the sound is coming from. Rowena Ravenclaw is sunk on the cold, stone floor, her ebony locks flowing loose. Her skin is even paler in the white glow of the moon and the only colour comes from her cheeks, which are stained red with tears. There is a empty bottle of firewhiskey discarded beside her.

He feels sick to his stomach. He does not want to go in, for he does not want to be stuck comforting the very woman he dislikes so greatly. Yet somehow he cannot bear to see her cry, to see her in this state.

"Lady Ravenclaw?" he says quietly, entering the library.

She freezes as she hears him, wipes the tears from her cheeks and puts on a smile that others might have believed, but that he knows is false. "Lord Slytherin," she says. Her voice is overly cheery and yet he can hear the undertone of grief. "W—what might bring you here?" She tries to hide the quiver in her voice, but it comes out regardless.

"What's the matter?" he says bluntly, for he does not wish to skirt around the issue.

"Nothing, I—"

"Lady Ravenclaw, you were crying," he says, sitting down next to her. A tear trails down her cheek. "You are crying."

"Oh, astute observation!" she cries out suddenly and he feels himself reeling backwards.

"What's the matter?" He doesn't like repeating himself, but he does.

The tears are flowing more freely down her face now, and she doesn't seem able to speak. She simply shakes her head.

He notices a crumpled piece of parchment lying next to her and he picks it up gingerly, ignoring her sounds of protest. He gently unfolds it, trying not to tear it—a task that proves difficult for Rowena has crushed it so much that it is weak. It bears writing, smudged where tears have blended with the ink to create little grey pools. Yet it is still legible, so he reads it, his eyes darting across the page with astounding speed. When he is done, he looks up at her.

"I'm so sorry, Lady Ravenclaw," he whispers. "I—I didn't know."

"Neither did I," she said mournfully. "The letter came half an hour ago. I didn't even know he was sick."

"I know how close you were to your father." He reaches forward and takes her hand lightly. He's somewhat surprised when she doesn't pull away from his touch. Rather, her fingers rest on his palm and they stay like that, for a few minutes of silence that is only punctuated by her occasional sobs.

"I should go," he says finally. He starts to get up, but her grip on his hand tightens.

When he looks back at her, her eyes are desperate, pleading almost. "No," she says, choked. "Please don't leave me." She glances downwards, as if ashamed. "I—I don't want to be alone."

So he doesn't leave her. He sits back down next to her and watches her silently as she cries, unsure of how to console her. She leans back into him, so he wraps an arm around her to steady her, only he doesn't move it when she's still.

He's not sure how long they stay like that. All he knows is that they part ways in the early hours of the morning, just before the sun peeks out from behind the curtain of the night.

Somehow, after that night, he can't find it in his heart to hate her again.


	3. present day: the morning after

_present day: the morning after_

She wakes up with Godric's arm around her and a pounding in her head.

There is little comfort in the situation, but she finds solace in the fact that one will go away. The other, however, will not.

She shifts slightly and Godric lets out a groan, lifting his arm and rubbing his eyes. "Good morning."

She looks at his face and realizes, with a start, that this is what her mornings are going to be like now. This is the face that she is going to see every morning until she dies.

And it's not the face that she thought it would be. For when she imagined her future, she always dreamed that she would be with Salazar.

_Salazar_.

He hasn't left her mind since he kissed her before the wedding. She can't get his piercing green eyes, his face, his touch, his voice out of her head. Last night, when she consummated her marriage in the dark, she pretended it was him on top of her. Only Godric's clumsiness and awkward touches prevented her from moaning Salazar's name.

She wonders where he is right now and hopes that he's all right even though she knows that he isn't. She's torn his heart into little pieces, but it hasn't been without pain.

Her heart is equally as fragmented, and she doesn't quite know how to put it all back together again.

She exchanges pleasantries with Godric, and knows he senses her discomfort because he leaves their chamber to bathe. Raising herself from the bed, she walks over to the mirror on the dresser-table. Her eyes are bloodshot and her hair disheveled, wildly curling around her face.

Her appearance is that of a stranger, she doesn't like it at all.

She reaches into the dresser drawer for a hairbrush or a comb or something to tame her hair and instead pulls out a bottle of firewhiskey. It's dusty, but she can see the liquid swirling and swishing inside and she knows that just one sip will numb her enough to get through this day.

If only it could get her through the rest of her life.

She's about to uncork the bottle and take a drink when Godric comes back in. He's forgotten his shirt. She drops the bottle into the drawer with a thud and turns around, muttering something about a hairbrush. Godric comes close to her, pushes her hair behind her year and tells her she always looks beautiful to him.

And then he leans in and he kisses her.

There's nothing wrong with the kiss itself, but he doesn't taste right. He tastes like honey and syrup, not freshly fallen snow and mint. He feels unusually smooth—he doesn't have that light stubble that Salazar always has.

She kisses him back, but only because it is what is expected of her.

* * *

The first time she sees him is at breakfast. He sits at the table in the front of the Great Hall, eating in silence. She can barely look at him without her heart rate speeding up, her stomach beginning to sink and her breath hitching in her throat.

His eyes are bloodshot, his skin is pale and he is unshaven.

It slowly hits her that she has led to this change in his appearance.

She isn't sure she can bear sitting next to him, so she sits on the opposite end of the table, smiling falsely to the students below, playing the part of the happy bride.

The only thing she's happy about is that there are no classes today. She needs time to adjust to her new role.

But weekends bring the weekly reports and she finds herself in the headmasters' office at that horrible square table, staring directly into Salazar's green eyes. She feels trapped, caught in his gaze and unable to worm her way out—although she's unsure if it's because she can't or because she won't.

She has a strong suspicious that it's because she won't.

_Merlin_, she wishes she'd had that firewhiskey.

He greets her before the reports begin, kissing her hand. "Lady _Gryffindor_," he says, in a rough, yet formal voice that she hasn't heard in so long, and she's overcome with a desire to pull him towards her and kiss him, just as he kissed her yesterday. She doesn't want the formality, the Lady Gryffindor's (she hates that this is her name now and she hates that he's reminding her of it) and the Lord Slytherin's. She just wants Salazar.

But she cannot have him, so instead she sits, wrapped in his eyes, only half-listening to Godric as he reports on his students' progress. She knows that Salazar isn't listening either, for he is as focused on her as she is on him.

If Helga or Godric notice anything, they don't mention it.

She delivers her report stuttering and sweaty, pretending that her nervousness is due to her new status as a wife. Godric smiles and hugs her, even leaning across the table to give her a tiny kiss on the cheek once she is done.

She sees Salazar flinch and she knows she's hurting him, but she doesn't know how she can stop it, how she can fix this.

It's simple- she can't.

They are the last two out of the door. Godric rushes ahead, saying that he's scheduled an extra lesson with a student, while Helga ambles on to the kitchens. Salazar opens the door for Rowena and whispers, "My lady," as she makes for it, his breath brushing her ear and making the butterflies in her stomach flutter like crazy.

"Salazar," she whispers and he lets the door swing closed.

"We can't linger here—someone will notice."

"I don't care," she says, bringing a hand up to cup his face. "I don't care."

And then she leans in to kiss him.

It's the second time she's been kissed today and this time, it feels right. He kisses her back, and it's powerful and passionate and she doesn't want to let him go because _it just feels right_. He pulls her close—one arm around her neck and entwined in her hair, the other around her waist and deepens the kiss. A moan escapes her throat and he responds by kissing her harder.

She reaches for the buttons on his tunic and undoes the first two before he pushes her away. She staggers backward, shocked and a little hurt. "What happened?"

He's shaking his head. "We can't do this."

"But—"

"You're a married woman, Rowena. We can't."

Before she can say anything, he's gone, out the door, his presence only lingering through the taste of mint on her lips. She stands alone in the middle of the room, wondering what it is that she did to deserve this at all.

Unable to find a satisfactory answer, she hits the wall in despair.

* * *

Walking away from her was the hardest thing he's had to do in his life.

He thought his pounding headache was bad—coupled with the emotional pain he's feeling now, it's practically blinding. He stumbles through the corridors, grabbing the wall for support and before he knows it, he's in his chamber, he's found a bucket and he's throwing up the contents of his stomach.

Even half an hour later, when he's sitting on his favourite chair by the window, his mouth still tastes bitter.

He doesn't truly know why he did it, not when it would have been so easy to lean into her again, to let her pull his shirt off and to take her, right then and there. But he knows, deep down, that things can never be the way they were anymore because they have changed. She's a married woman now, and he can never touch her again without ruining her reputation.

He knows how much the school means to her, and he can't rip that away from her. He can't have her branded as an adulteress, shamed in front of all those people that she's known for years. He's heard himself described as cold and snakelike, but he certainly isn't heartless.

He can't ruin her and it kills him because he _wants _her, so, so much. And he's never been good with not getting what he wants.

The pain floods back, rushing through his blood vessels. His hands begin to shake and he wonders whether the pain will ever get better, or if it'll just keep getting worse and worse.

Instinctively, he reaches for the firewhiskey that he keeps in the bottom drawer of his dresser. His hand scrapes the nothingness as he remembers that he drank most of his supply last night and Helga confiscated whatever was left over.

His painkiller is gone. He'd rather burn up than feel like this, but it appears that there's no choice.

He's just going to have to learn how to deal with it. The only issue is that he's not sure he can.


End file.
